§ 297 The Apostolic Switch
An Irishman walked up Fifth Avenue one Wednesday night, dropped into a place of worship and immediately went to sleep. After the prayer-meeting services were over the sexton came and shook him by the arm.
“We are about to close up,” said that functionary, “and I’ll have to ask you to go now.”
“What talk have you?” said the Irishman. “The cathedral never closes.”
“This is not the cathedral,” said the sexton. “The cathedral is several blocks above here. This is a Presbyterian church.”
The Irishman sat up with a jerk and looked about him. On the walls between the windows were handsome paintings of the Apostles.
“Ain’t that Saint Luke over yonder?” he demanded.
“It is,” said the sexton.
“And ’tis Saint Mark just beyant him, if I’m not mistook?”
“Yes.”
“And still farther along Saint Timothy?”
“Yes.”
“Young man,” demanded the Irishman, “since whin did all thim turn Protestant?”